Remember Me (26 page)

‘Prepare for another attack from astern!’

The Sunderland dropped out of the clouds behind them, guns twinkling brightly in the gloom, and levelled off at four hundred metres.

‘They are going to bomb us!’ warned the lieutenant. His binoculars were jammed tightly into his eye sockets to counter the shaking of his hands.

The gun crews had the perfect opportunity to strike a telling blow with the Sunderland flying straight and level directly at them, but haste and panic again pushed their shots wide. They kept firing until they fell, moments before the Sunderland released two depth charges. The instant the aircraft passed overhead, Captain Berger rose from the cover of the conning tower to see where the charges had landed. Twin circles of foam showed they’d landed just short. Everything now depended on the power of the charges.

The concussion lifted the stern clear of the water. Those sailors still on deck were lost overboard. The officers in the conning tower fell spreadeagled. Shouts
from below deck alerted the captain to new emergencies. He’d practised dropping from the conning tower bridge down into the control room but he’d never done it faster. His only concern now was to keep his U-boat afloat. He raced towards the engine room, stopped aghast at the scene before him. Water flooded in through burst pipes and through joins in the hull where plates had buckled and welds opened. Without warning the engines shuddered and expired. The U-boat tilted ominously towards the stern.

A
N EXTRACT FROM
‘D
EATH OF A
U-B
OAT’

A lot of people can tell you where they were when they heard John F. Kennedy had been shot or when Armstrong took his ‘one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind’. I feel the same about the day Ryan burst screaming and panicking out of the bushes that covered the easement down at the bottom of Cockburn Street. I know it was the second Tuesday in March although I’m darned if I can remember the date. I do remember it was one of those annoying Auckland days when localised squalls swept in from the Tasman spoiling an otherwise perfect day. One squall had cut into our lunchbreak and sent six hundred kids scattering for shelter, only to pass over the instant we were all under cover. Showers swept down the harbour off and on all day and away to the
south. It was what Dad called an ‘umbrella and sunglasses’ day because you needed both.

My first thought when I saw Ryan was that someone had fallen off the rope swing and broken their arm or something but Ryan was far too agitated for that. Then I noticed his pants were soaking wet right up to his navel. Eric and I practised mental telepathy when we played Battleships but I didn’t need to be telepathic to realise what had happened. I felt it right down to the pit of my stomach.

While I’d been going fishing and worshipping at the feet of Mr Berger and Mr Holterman, life after school had been carrying on pretty much as normal. My solo return trip through the storm drain was no longer a big deal. At least thirty kids had done the run from one shaft to the other during February alone. Of course the influx of kids to the easement alerted people in neighbouring houses and somebody called the Water Board. I think all the nearby parents would’ve preferred it if the Water Board had concreted up both shafts but they only sealed the second shaft, the one that had caused all the excitement in the first place. Apparently they needed to have access to check on blockages, especially where small feeder drains intersected.

That should’ve been the end of the game. Just going down into the drain was pretty boring after the thrill of running in pitch darkness from one shaft to another. But the kids weren’t ready to let go. Running the drain, as the
game was known, had really caught on. Nigel and Maxie were with the bunch of kids who discovered they could lift the cover off a third shaft at the back of a small reserve on the northern side of Sackville Street. If there were two hundred yards between the first and second shafts, there had to be at least four hundred yards between the second and third. With more than six hundred yards between the first and third shafts, common sense should have told the kids that running between the two was a one-way ticket to Coxs Creek. But the discovery simply meant the game was back on and the extra distance added to the excitement. It became something of a challenge, even a competition, to see who would do the run first.

I heard some kids talking about doing a run through the drains after school but didn’t take much notice. Eric and I were due to go up to the Church Army for another instalment of Mr Berger’s story. With Mr Holterman also telling his story, getting Mr Berger’s story down to the point where I could begin to write an essay about it was taking longer than anticipated. I didn’t mind and neither did Eric. We wanted these magical sessions to last forever. The more we heard, the more we wanted to hear. The more detail we were given, the more detail we demanded. We were as greedy as puppies, willing to gorge ourselves until we burst. The truth was we didn’t care what the other kids were doing. What we were doing was better.

That Tuesday we raced up to the Church Army only to be met at the door by Sister Kathleen. She told us
Christian Berger had important visitors, that he apologised for letting us down and asked if we could come Wednesday instead. There was no point in protesting. Sister Kathleen said the visitors had come to discuss the possibility of a job for Christian Berger and we all knew how important that was. Eric and I drifted off disappointed and worrying whether Mr Berger’s new job would spell the end of our sessions. Eric wanted to go and bomb Dresden but I didn’t feel like playing. I told him I wanted to work on my essay but I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do. Mr Berger still hadn’t told us how his war had ended, how his U-boat had been sunk or what it felt like to be a sitting duck with a Sunderland lining up for a bombing run with all guns blazing. Mr Holterman had told us about his part in the raid on Hamburg that had caused the first firestorm of the war, but he still hadn’t told us how he came to be shot down and lost his leg. There was so much still untold and that included the best parts of both men’s wartime adventures, at least from our perspective. I knew for sure that if Mr Berger got so busy in his new job that he couldn’t finish his story, Mr Holterman wouldn’t finish his either. Mr Holterman let us listen but didn’t talk to us. As far as he was concerned we were wallpaper. He was only interested in Christian Berger. He’d found a sense of comradeship in his company, something he’d probably thrived on during the war and which had been missing ever since. Without that carrot, he had no reason to continue.

I think I probably went home to sulk and feel sorry for myself but felt too let down to even do that. When I told Mum what had happened she sent me off to the shops for some groceries to, as she put it, take my mind off things. That didn’t help. I did as I was told then, with nothing better to do, hopped back on my bike. My plan was to ride down Cockburn Street, swing left into Dryden Street at the bottom of the hill and then cut across Grey Lynn Park to Chamberlain Street where Eric lived. Bombing Dresden didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all and I figured we could drop a few bombs on Hamburg along the way.

I took off down Cockburn Street determined not to brake until the absolute last moment, so I could lock my back wheel and leave a point-scoring skid mark on the road. It’s a hairy manoeuvre to attempt at high speed downhill because there’s no weight over the back wheel. You have to remain absolutely vertical and maintain a straight line or the bike will skid away beneath you. The collar on my shirt flapped so hard as I gathered speed it almost beat me to death. I wouldn’t be surprised if I set a new land speed record for boys on bikes. As a result I left my braking far too late, chickened out of braking altogether and flew past Dryden Street. To restore some vestige of pride I decided to change the game to seeing how far I could get up Hakanoa Street without pedalling instead. Hakanoa Street ran up the other side of the gully. My bike had only just begun to slow down when Big Ryan burst out of the bushes.

‘Stop!’ he screamed. I reckon my skid mark would’ve run seven yards, dead straight.

‘What’s up?’ I said. I was more excited than alarmed. A kid breaking his arm was always exciting, particularly if an ambulance came. Then I noticed how wet he was. And how exhausted. Ryan could hardly speak, let alone stand. He slumped down onto his knees and started crying. Suddenly Ryan didn’t look a bit like Elvis Presley and didn’t even look a bit tough. I began to feel scared, really scared.

‘Tell me,’ I demanded. ‘What’s happened?’

‘The water’s come up,’ he gasped. ‘It came up. Just like that. It’s trapped Gary. And Clarry.’

‘Where?’

‘The second shaft. The current was too strong for them. I kept going to get help.’

Ryan collapsed sobbing and who could blame him? It was my nightmare. Hell, it was all our nightmares and it was actually happening. I realised Ryan wasn’t going anywhere and that I’d have to get help. But from where? With everyone’s dad still at work or on the way home, my first thought was to run back up Cockburn Street to the school and get some teachers but just as quickly realised they’d all have left. My only hope was the two men I knew for sure would be home. Captain Biggs and Christian Berger. I told Ryan to knock on doors until someone answered and get them to phone the Water Board and the police. I set off for the Church Army,
pedalling harder than I had in my life. My plan was simple. Cockburn Street was too steep to ride up and it would take too long to run up. I decided to stick to my original circuit even though riding on grass slowed me down. I hammered across Grey Lynn Park, rode up the bank to Dickens Street for the first time ever without having to get off and push. My heart felt like it was trying to burst. I rode up Rose Road into Chamberlain Street, barrelled past Eric’s place, dropped the bike by the hideout, scrambled up the bank on all fours, pushed aside the paling and burst into the Church Army grounds. I opened the back door and ran through the rabbit warren of corridors towards the lounge room, where I knew Captain Biggs and Christian Berger would be. I guess I was shouting and screaming, because Captain Biggs came running out of the lounge before I got within ten yards of it.

‘You gotta come!’ I gasped. ‘Gary and Clarry are trapped in the storm drain and the water’s rising!’

Captain Biggs turned white. I guess he’d been having nightmares, too, ever since I told him about the drain, up at the hospital. Christian Berger came out into the corridor to see what was going on.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

I told him, forcing the words out between breaths. The blood also seemed to drain from Christian Berger’s face. Blimey Charlie, he could’ve had some of mine. My face was so red it felt hot to the touch.

‘You’ll have to take us there,’ said Captain Biggs.

‘Torches,’ I said.‘You’ll need torches. My bike’s out the back. You go out the front down Cockburn Street and I’ll catch you up.’

I ran back along the corridors, across the lawn, through the hole in the fence and tumbled down the bank. I lay on the ground by the front wheel of my bike, helpless, sucking in air, not wanting to get up. Someone yelled my name. Eric. I waved him over and told him what had happened. He pushed my bike the rest of the way up Chamberlain Street, running while I tried my best to keep up. Captain Biggs saw us coming and stopped to wait for us. Eric yelled at them to keep going. Even with me puffed out and suffering from the worst stitch in the world, Eric knew we’d still beat them to the storm drain. He hopped onto my crossbar as soon as we reached Richmond Road. I got us going and turned down Cockburn Street. Even though Captain Biggs and Christian Berger were running as fast as they could, we whistled past them as though they were standing still. Eric started screaming for me to put the brake on but I was too tired to back-pedal. I concentrated on keeping the bike upright and straight as we set a new land speed record for two boys on a bike, a record which is probably unbroken to this day. Even though the beginning of Hakanoa Street is almost as steep as Cockburn Street, we overshot the easement by a good thirty yards. I left Eric waiting on the pavement for Captain Biggs while I ran to find Ryan. I found him in the clearing by the shaft with
a man and woman old enough to have sailed with Captain Cook. Ryan had flagged down their car instead of doing what I’d asked. He hadn’t knocked on any doors. No one had rung the Water Board or the police. The old couple hadn’t a clue what to do. They looked relieved just to see me.

I continued on to the shaft and looked down. I couldn’t see much but the sound made my blood run cold. The water in the drain was a steady roar, almost as loud as it had been when we’d talked about riding the torrent down to Coxs Creek. Eric was still filling in Captain Biggs and Christian Berger on the shape of the drain and the distance to the second shaft when they finally made it to the clearing.

Captain Biggs grabbed hold of Ryan. ‘Are you sure they’re in the second shaft?’ he asked.

Ryan nodded and burst into tears.

‘They’ll be lucky if they don’t end up in Coxs Creek,’ I said. ‘Just listen to the water.’

‘Do you think we can get the cover off the second shaft?’ It was obvious to me that Captain Biggs would try anything before going down into the drain. Who could blame him?

‘No hope,’ said Eric. ‘The Water Board has concreted it over.’

‘Maybe we can chip it off.’

‘No,’ said Eric. ‘We’ve already tried that. The concrete’s got stones in it.’

‘Let me have a look down there,’ said Christian Berger. He took a torch off Captain Biggs and started climbing down the rungs in the shaft as though he’d done it a million times before.

‘Stop!’ I yelled. ‘It’s too deep. You’ll get washed away.’

‘That’s what I need to find out,’ he said. His head disappeared over the rim of the shaft.

I turned to Captain Biggs. ‘I asked Ryan to get someone to phone the Water Board and the police,’ I said. ‘But he hasn’t.’

‘It’s OK, I asked Sister Kathleen to ring them.’